


Breaking Strain

by lucybun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Incest, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucybun/pseuds/lucybun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Sherlock have to wait for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Strain

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about incest, and it is very much a love story. If that's not your thing, please stop here.

It was cold and rainy. Good and proper funeral weather. He had been relieved when he'd risen this morning to find that a steady shower had set in for the day. He would want to have his umbrella with him this afternoon, but he didn't want it to appear to be a crutch. Affectation, that was fine, didn't bother him at all, but he cringed at the thought of a crutch. He stepped over to the doors that opened onto the balcony of his room and stared through the glass panels out over the dreary patch of fog that had settled over the lake. He was caught up in his own thoughts, looking through the landscape rather than at it, when the very tall, very wet form of his brother suddenly appeared in front of him on the other side of the door.

He gave a startled "Oh!" and stumbled back a step before he got hold of himself. He put his hand over his heart that was now racing in his chest and glared openly at his smirking brother who was just then turning the latch to let himself in.

"Not funny, Sherlock. That door was locked when I went to bed last night."

"Yes. It was. Towel, Mycroft."

"A 'please' wouldn't kill you," he replied as he strode into the bathroom to fetch a bath towel.

He emerged from the bathroom and moved back over to Sherlock, towel held out for him to take. Sherlock ignored the proffered item and dipped his head a bit, clearly indicating he wanted Mycroft to towel his head dry.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, a note of warning drawing the word out.

Sherlock looked up at him through his lashes, the plea evident in his eyes. Mycroft sighed. He reached over and began to gently dry Sherlock's hair with the large fluffy towel. He felt some of the tension drain out of the younger man's frame, relaxing into what had, once upon a time, been a routine for the two brothers. Child-Sherlock had been even more impatient than the grown man, so much so that by the time he had wasted precious minutes each evening bathing he often just skipped the drying-off bit and slid dripping wet into his pyjamas. A bout of near-pneumonia precipitated by this behavior hadn't changed Sherlock's habit at all, so finally Mycroft intervened. There was no point in ordering Sherlock to towel himself off, as ordering Sherlock to do anything was an exercise in futility. Instead, he'd walked into the bathroom one evening with an unfolded towel held out in front of him as Sherlock was stepping out of the tub and said, "You _will_ let me get the water off of you. We can waste time arguing about it or you can acquiesce now and save yourself the bother."

Sherlock knew even then that the only other person whose will might be more than a match for his own was Mycroft, so he did the sensible thing for once. Out of this, a nightly ritual was soon born. Sherlock would bathe, Mycroft would towel him dry, help him into his night clothes, then read to him from Plutarch or Cicero until he nodded off. This happened every night until Mycroft went off to university. Oh, it should have ended far sooner, no doubt, but it had long since become something of a comfort to them both, and no one else seemed bothered or indeed even aware that it was happening. It was Mycroft's first indication that things between him and Sherlock were not quite normal. They were both confident in the knowledge that as individuals each of them fell firmly outside the norm, but it wasn't until he left home for the first time that he knew that _they,_ Sherlock and Mycroft together, weren't normal. That it wasn't normal to miss helping your teenage brother into his pyjamas each night, miss reading him to sleep, miss running your hand through the soft curls on his head as he dozed off.

As he stood there in his dim room once again toweling the damp off of Sherlock's tousled head, he realized just how much he had missed tending to him like this. It had been a very long time since he'd been this close to his brother, since he'd touched him. A very long time indeed, and that awareness was shooting a low heat through his mind and body. He lifted one hand to cup the back of Sherlock's head and used the other hand to dry his face, carefully patting his delicate eyelids and gently wiping at his sharp cheekbones. It wasn't until he started wiping down the sides of Sherlock's neck that he noticed the fine tremor running through the younger man and his tightly clenched jaw. The idiot was so cold his teeth wanted to chatter.

"You have to get out of these wet clothes. Why can't you just use the front door like everyone else?"

Sherlock opened up his mouth to reply, but, before he could answer, Mycroft added, "And if you say 'front doors are boring' I will be forced to hurt you."

"Well, if you w-w-want m-me t-to lie, I c-can," he chattered instead.

"Go," Mycroft urged as he pushed him toward the door. "There's a dressing gown hanging on the back of the door."

Sherlock, mostly dry from the neck up but dripping wet everywhere else, squelched into the bathroom to get out of his sodden clothing. Mycroft dropped down to sit on the foot of the bed, wondering what the man had been thinking wandering around the grounds in the cold and the rain. He heard the muffled sound of a wet shirt plopping onto the tile, then the sound of a zip followed by some more plopping noises. He felt heat creeping up his face at the sounds and the thought of what was happening behind the door, but he ignored it. It would only take a few moments more for Sherlock to finish drying and slip into the dressing gown, then he could find out what the hell had possessed his brother to take a stroll in this weather.

He heard the latch and looked up, already preparing in his head the lecture he was about to give. As soon as he looked up, though, any chance of coherent speech fled. His brother stood framed in the doorway, damp hair curling, skin rubbed pink, and wearing Mycroft's dressing gown. The dressing gown which Sherlock hadn't bothered to tie closed in the front. He gaped for a few moments then, through sheer force of will, lifted his eyes up to meet the glowing blue-green of his brother's.

Sherlock stared back, his own flush of color riding high on his cheeks, then prowled back into the room toward the bed. He turned back the duvet on the side opposite from where Mycroft had slept, shrugged the dressing gown off of his shoulders to pool on the rug, and slid into the bed.

"Wha- *ahem* what are you doing?"

"Trying to get warm. I'm freezing, Mycroft. Come warm me up?"

"Sherlock, don't," he answered, still facing the bathroom door.

"I really am cold. Very, very cold," his voice deepening with each word he spoke until the last words he said came out sounding very much like a resonant purr, "Please, Mycroft. Please."

Now Mycroft was the one shivering.

"No."

"No?"

"That's what I said. Sherlock, we...just not now."

"But you said that when Mummy-"

"I know what I said." He could feel Sherlock's gaze boring into his back. He just hadn't expected to deal with this today. He had no excuse for being unprepared for this right now and damned himself a fool a thousand times over for not realizing that Sherlock would have no qualms about making love to him on the day of their mother's funeral. He rarely had qualms about anything. This... _thing_ had been simmering for years, and Sherlock had been ready, willing, and able to make a go of it the moment he'd realized that what was between them went beyond the brotherly.

It was Mycroft who had shied away, Mycroft who had refused his brother's advances, his clumsy attempts at seduction. Even when he truly didn't wish to. It had taken him years to finally admit that the feeling between them wasn't going to go away, it had taken even longer for him to admit that he didn't want it to. No one else had ever come close to being what Sherlock was to him. He didn't just worry about him constantly, he thought about him constantly; where he was, what he was doing, whom he was doing it with. "Sherlock" had been the one constant refrain in the score of his mind for as long as he could remember.

Still, Mycroft had a sense of propriety that his brother sorely lacked. His concern about moving forward had been two-fold: his career and Mummy. The career concerns had been easy enough to deal with, it had just required some careful thought and planning. First of all, he doubted that if they exercised even a modicum of care that anyone would ever realize that there was more going on with the Holmeses than met the eye. People see what they want to see, and no one would want to see anything other than two confirmed-bachelor brothers who spent a good portion of their time with one another. Still, he was loathe to rely on something so unpredictable as the ignorance of others, so he had set about establishing himself in his job as someone who was absolutely irreplaceable. He had cunningly collected information on and carefully doled out favors to his colleagues. Should anyone ever actually stumble upon the truth, Mycroft was confident that he would be able to contain the problem. At this stage in his career, he was powerful, respected, and feared. That combination would be enough to keep his job safe.

The bigger problem, in his mind, had been Mummy. He knew she would be shattered to think of what was brewing between her sons. He also knew that she might be the one person sage enough to suss out what was going on should he and Sherlock become intimate. The great "Holmesian" mind was something of a misnomer. His and Sherlock's intelligence wasn't a gift from their father's side of the family. No, it was their mother who had provided the genes for their razor-sharp intellect. She wasn't around often, but, much like her children, she only needed a moment's observation to make eerily accurate deductions. She hadn't been the best mother in the world, God knew, but she hadn't been awful either, not like their father. She'd mostly been a benignly neglectful presence who flitted home for holidays and other major events. But he wasn't willing to risk breaking her heart.

The hardest part had been convincing Sherlock that keeping their mother's heart in one piece was a good enough reason to wait. It had been difficult not only because of Sherlock's own stubbornness, but because he had found it excruciatingly hard to convince his brother to wait when it wasn't what he wanted to do either. The cold fact was that Mummy was getting on in years. She'd been pushing forty before she'd had Mycroft, an extremely late age for the times. Mycroft had examined every angle of the problem but could find no sure-fire way to keep from hurting Mummy other than to wait until she was gone. He told himself time and again that there was a difference between wishing his mother into an early grave and seeing the silver-lining to the inevitability of her passing away. He didn't want her gone, but he knew that, once she was gone, his life was going to change very much for the better.

Sherlock had, of course, pouted and raged at him for what seemed like years over Mycroft's insistence that they wait. When he'd finally made it clear that he wasn't going to budge on the issue, Sherlock had disappeared into London and settled himself into the gutter. He was punishing Mycroft by completely removing himself from his life. He had turned to drugs and hard living as a sort of monumental temper tantrum. At some point between finding Sherlock nearly comatose in a flop house in Camden and once spying him seriously contemplate selling his body for drug money, Mycroft realized his brother was quickly spiraling toward destruction, but he was at an utter loss as to what to do about it. Thank God Gregory Lestrade had entered the scene before Sherlock had hit rock bottom. Lestrade had seen the spark of genius in his brother and had recognized that it was a tool that the Yard might need in desperate times. He'd been willing to overlook the fact that he'd met Sherlock while arresting him for cocaine possession and had insisted that Sherlock stop any and all drug use before he'd bring him in on any cases.

The DI had given Sherlock something to focus on besides his brother, besides not having his brother. He'd given him a reason to get clean, and it had saved his life. Sherlock had checked himself into rehab for three months and had come out ready to begin his career as a consulting detective. It took him another three months before he could bring himself to see Mycroft again. He'd shown up on his doorstep one sweltering night in June. Mycroft had opened the door and used up every ounce of discipline he had to keep from grabbing him, wrapping him in his arms, and drowning in the scent of him. The spark between them had reignited like lightning, and they both took a physical step back from each other to ease the sensation. Sherlock stood on the portico and looked everywhere but at his brother as Mycroft stood in silence, drinking in the first sight of Sherlock in person that he'd had in months. The younger man finally jammed his fists into his trouser pockets and swallowed heavily. When he spoke, there was a thickness to his voice that made Mycroft's chest ache.

"When she's gone?"

"Yes."

"Promise me. Promise me right now, Mycroft."

"I promise."

Sherlock lifted his head and met his gaze for a moment. He gave a brisk nod at whatever it was he saw, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the night.

After that, things were... _strained_. Oh, Mycroft knew why he did it, why he acted as if he hated him. Why he pushed him away and out of his life at every turn. Of course he knew. He even understood. Being tantalizingly close somehow hurt so much more than being far away, so Sherlock kept him far away. Mycroft became the enemy because he was the only man who had the ability to destroy Sherlock. He would never do that, but he couldn't blame his brother for being wary of the abyss; after all, he'd gone much closer to the edge of it than Mycroft ever had. The distance, the animosity, was a defense, and it was one he tried very hard to allow without becoming incredibly bitter.

He'd had to work extra hard on the lack of bitterness when John Watson had waltzed into Sherlock's life. He'd done his research on the doctor, he'd carted him to that warehouse to get a handle on the man's character, but he could find no fault with the man Watson appeared to be. He was good and strong and kind...and very much willing to be a comrade to Sherlock Holmes. A part of him relished the fact. His brother needed a friend, needed someone to keep him grounded and to try to keep him safe. Mycroft couldn't be that person right then, so, in many ways, John was the answer to his prayers.

But another part, small but ferocious, screamed in outrage that this man, this ordinary, plain, dull little man was able to weave himself into Sherlock's world in a way that was denied to him. John might be Sherlock's brother-in-arms, but Mycroft was his actual brother, tied to Sherlock by blood and a bond that no one beside the two of them would ever understand. The good part of him, the truly loving part of him, was grateful for the doctor. But alone in his bed at night, he couldn't help the jealousy that rose up like bile in his throat, couldn't help wondering what went on behind closed doors in their cozy little flat. He didn't actually believe that there was anything other than a deep and abiding friendship between the two men, but that belief sometimes lost the battle against the fear and dread and envy. Those were the nights he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the ache in his body and his mind that demanded Sherlock's presence. He would crawl out of bed the next morning exhausted and defeated. Those were the days when the desperation almost got the better of him, the days when he understood the draw of mind-numbing drugs. More than once he'd picked up his phone and typed out, "I can't do this anymore. Come home to me," only to stop himself from hitting send with the last thread of his resolve.

And so it went. Through explosions at pools, rebellions in the Middle East, Moriarty's capture, and Mummy's cancer. All of it horrible and all of it made bearable by the light that was "Mycroft and Sherlock" at the end of the tunnel. Mummy's illness had been swift but brutal. By the last few days of her life, Mycroft was able to let go of any guilt he might have felt at her encroaching death. Death was a longed for blessing by the end. She'd died in her sleep four days ago. He had been in London catching up on pressing matters in the middle of the night, and Sherlock had been out doing whatever it was he did when there was no case or experiment to keep him occupied. Her nurse had called him with the news around five in the morning, and he'd surprised himself by weeping. He didn't dare analyze the cause for his tears, but they were cathartic nonetheless.

He'd made the arrangements for Mummy's funeral from his office in town and had only traveled back to their country house the night before. He had no idea when Sherlock had finally arrived.

And he'd been taken completely by surprise by the younger man's behavior this morning. Looking back on it, he really was a prize idiot. What else did he think Sherlock would do? Why was he himself so reticent to take what he'd been denying himself for so long? The simple answer was that he was afraid. His fear had kept him from thinking too much about Sherlock these past few days. His fear had him frozen at the end of his bed, saying no to the one thing, the one man, he wanted above all others. He leaned over, put his head in his hands, and fought against tears that threatened to come for the second time in four days.

He heard shuffling behind him, felt the mattress sway underneath as Sherlock walked on his knees to the end of the bed. He felt firm thighs settle on either side of his legs and long arms wrap around his chest as Sherlock lay his forehead onto Mycroft's shoulder.

"Mycroft? It's all right, now. Everything's all right. Or it's going to be. You promised me that we could have this, and now I'm promising you that having this will be fine. It will be good. We'll be good. Mycroft, please."

This time the word wasn't a purr, it wasn't a seduction, it was an honest plea to let go, to let them become more than they had been. The last of his resistance fled his body, and he slumped back boneless into his brother's embrace. He turned his head toward Sherlock and brought his hand up to grasp at the hair on the back of his head. "Yes. Yes, you're right. Enough is enough. Come here," he urged as he pulled the dark head closer to his own, "I want to kiss you. My God, how I want to kiss you."

So he did, finally settling his lips across that perfect bow of a mouth. Both were very gentle at first, afraid to break the moment, afraid this might be another one of those wonderful dreams that felt more like a nightmare when they woke up alone the next day. But as reality set in, as he was able to trust in his senses, the dam broke.

He pulled away from Sherlock, stood up to shed his pyjamas, and pushed his brother back onto the bed as he crawled up over him.

"Finally. God, Mycroft," Sherlock moaned as bare skin settled firmly against bare skin. Mycroft could only agree...yes, _finally_.

He kissed him again, deep bruising kisses that Sherlock returned with equal force. Teeth gnashing against each other, lips swelling and aching from the pressure. He kissed down his jaw and settled his face into the side of that long, delicious neck. He'd wished for, prayed for, a taste of that pale skin, and it was his at last. He licked and sucked and bit. He didn't care if he left a mark. Sherlock always wore a scarf anyway. No one else would know, but he moaned at the thought of standing next to him knowing that he was covered with bruises that said, "Mine, mine, mine." It wasn't until Sherlock answered, "Yes, yours. Always yours," that he even realized he'd been chanting the word aloud.

He lay there soothing the marks with his warm tongue, writhing on top of his brother, hard and moist and nearly choking on his desire. He felt large, cool hands rubbing circles into the skin of his back.

"Shh. Shh. Yours. That's it, yours. We can do slow later. I...I can't...I need you in me. Now. Right now," Sherlock keened, dropping one of his hands to Mycroft's ass to pull him in tighter against his own hardness.

They ground against each other a few more times before Mycroft knew that if they didn't stop they were going to come just like this, rutting against each other like animals. There would be a time for that, but right now, Sherlock was right. He needed to be inside, _come_ inside, the younger man. He lifted up on his hands and knees but nearly fell again as his body went weak and his mouth went dry at the sight of the most beautiful man he'd ever seen naked and hard and hungry for him.

"Scoot up," he rasped. Sherlock scurried back so that his legs were no longer dangling off the end of the bed as Mycroft crawled over to the side table to fetch the tube of lubricant. A thought passed of all the nights he'd lain in this bed, stroking his own flesh, wishing it wasn't his own hand making a tight, slick fist for him to slide into. No more wishing though. No more.

He moved around and settled on his heels between Sherlock's spread legs. He took another moment to gaze at the wonder splayed out before him until Sherlock spread his legs even wider and brought his knees up to his chest. The position brought his ass into view and let Mycroft catch a flash of the pink circle of flesh hidden between the lush cheeks that he was so desperate for.

Sherlock rocked back a bit, mimicking the motion of spearing himself on his brother's cock. Mycroft spilled out a generous amount of lubricant onto his hand and leaned forward to lick a broad stripe up the underside of the Sherlock's cock as he gently slid one long finger into his tight hole. The younger man made an incoherent gurgling noise. Mycroft looked up to make sure it had been a sound of pleasure not pain, and was rewarded with an adoring gaze meeting his own and a deep groan of, "Ohhhh, more."

He took his time preparing Sherlock even though he was perilously close to the edge. But they'd had enough pain to last a very long time. Now was for pleasure and release. Not until his brother was a quivering mess who could only choke out "more" and "please," did Mycroft apply more lubricant to his own twitching cock and settle the head against Sherlock's entrance.

"Sherlock, look at me. I want to see you."

He obeyed, and Mycroft reveled in the blown pupils, the eyes that widened as his cock slid home, the bottom lip that was bitten in an effort to keep from screaming. Neither of them were going to last long. Sherlock's cock was hard up against his abdomen, purple and dripping in a steady stream. He was harder than he'd ever been in his life and overwhelmed by the feeling of finally being taken in by his brother, of being surrounded by everything he wanted. Sherlock kept eye contact with him as he began to move, slowly at first but quickly gaining momentum. Soon the room was filled with the sounds of harsh breathing and the slap of damp flesh against damp flesh. Mycroft could feel the coiling low in his abdomen that signaled his oncoming climax and a quick glance at this brother's drawn up sack told him they were on pace together. He brought one hand up to begin stroking Sherlock's cock, but his hand was smacked away.

"No. No. Just you. Just on you," came spilling from that perfect mouth.

A few more punishing thrusts and Sherlock opened his mouth in a silent scream as spurt after spurt shot out of his cock. The clenching of his muscles around Mycroft sent him over the edge and he filled that perfect ass with his own come. He collapsed, trembling and twitching, onto the body beneath him. Both men were boneless, exhausted, and gasping for air. When a tiny bit of strength returned, Mycroft attempted to roll off to the side to keep from crushing his brother, but Sherlock caught him in a tight circle of arms and legs and wouldn't let him move.

"Don't. I like this. I want to feel your weight on me. Want to feel you all over."

Mycroft couldn't have stopped himself from kissing him then if the world had depended on it. He kissed him and kissed him and kissed him until it seemed that was all he knew anymore. Finally, Sherlock let him roll them onto their sides, and he settled the head of damp curls to rest on his shoulder. He scratched gently at his brother's scalp as delicate fingers brushed through the hair on his chest.

"I'm glad you know," Sherlock muttered sleepily. Mycroft tensed a bit, dreading the words that were coming. "I'm glad this is who we are now. Nothing's ever been right before."

Mycroft relaxed, pleased rather than disturbed at Sherlock's sentiment.

"No, nothing's ever been right. It will be now, though. You promised, after all. Now you can finally stop all this detecting nonsense and become my full-time houseboy," Mycroft said with a teasing grin that his brother couldn't see.

Sherlock pulled back to look up at him sharply, "What a ridiculous thing to say, Mycro- Ohh. Oh, the fucking has made me stupid."

Mycroft thought it probably had more to do with them being a bit punch-drunk with relief than the actual sex. Still, he laughed as he replied, "I must say that I'm very pleased to have managed to fuck the great Sherlock Holmes stupid. I deserve some sort of reward, don't you think?"

Sherlock pulled himself up tighter against him and drawled, "Oh, but you've got your reward now, Mr. Holmes. What do you plan to do with it?"

"I think, Mr. Holmes, that I might be persuaded to share it with my horrid, little brother. How does that sound?"

Suddenly Sherlock hugged him even tighter, his arm like a steel band around his chest, "I think it sounds perfect. It always has. Just you, Mycroft."

Mycroft lay there as Sherlock's arms finally loosened, as his entire body relaxed and he was dancing along the edge of sleep. He listened to the sound of the increasingly heavy rain tapping against the glass. The dull ache of grief was seeping back in to replace some the relief, and he felt the prickle of dread for this afternoon wash across the back of his neck. But sleep was coming for him, too. That was all right, they deserved some time to rest now. He deliberately set all other thoughts in his mind aside and focused on the man in his arms. At last, at last. He placed a gentle kiss on the top of that beloved head and, just before he joined his brother in oblivion, he whispered, "Just you, too, Sherlock. Just you."

 

 


End file.
